Our good friend, Jorge Rivera

There are some friends who you value so much it is really hard to qualify into words.

I met Jorge Rivera three years ago in the same city where he ended his career: Nashville, Tennessee. For that fight, RU was not his largest sponsor, we were a small company that very few people knew, and given the general state of the MMA industry even now, there was no reason to believe we would even exist for his next fight. Furthermore, while fighters are generally very reclusive and private during the buildup to a fight, Jorge had also just lost his seventeen year old daughter, a pain that I can only imagine, and hope to never have to go through. In short, I didn’t expect any of his attention when I arrived at his hotel door to drop off shirts. I wanted to give him his gear, shake his hand, and get out of his way.

Instead, when that hotel door opened, I was greeted by an incredibly hospitable, thoughtful, and giving person who treated me as if we had known each other for years. He refused to let me excuse myself, introduced me to people in the industry I would have never known otherwise, and was incredibly open about his life. By the end of the day before weigh-ins, I felt like I had known Jorge, Matt Phinney, and Tim Burrill for years. I could see in Jorge a man that had made mistakes in life, but through them had acquired incredible wisdom and perspective, and wanted to impart that on those around him. For a guy who had achieved this level as a professional athlete, I was truly amazed by his humility and kindness.

By the time he entered the cage with Nissen Osterneck, hiding a broken hand and partially dislocated shoulder I might add, I felt like my brother was stepping in there. I don’t remember wanting anyone to win so badly in my life.

And he did.

It wasn’t pretty. He gassed early on and we all thought he’d get finished as a result, but he kept on pushing and pushing and refusing to quit. He did what Jorge does best: he fought.

And I don’t mean that in the sense of MMA. Jorge’s had every reason to give up in his life – sometimes because of self-made bad decisions and sometimes because of chance, but I can tell you honestly, he’s had a rough go at it. What makes him special, and what makes me look up to him, even as I examine situations I’d never be in, is that he has never shied from the struggle. When life hits him, he hits back harder. When he can’t hit anymore, he still manages to stand up. He’s not afraid of the fight – he embraces it.

I can’t explain our relationship exactly. Sponsor is almost an afterthought at this point. For my part, I’ve received middle of the night calls about strategy, business, stress, and anything else you can imagine (Jorge, like me, let’s his mind wander at night and can’t sleep). I’ve been there for the highs like beating a very game Nate Quarry in Charlotte with 50 vets cheering him on. I’ve been there for the lows, like watching my friend get kneed in the head and then be disrespected in Australia. Through it all though, it’s just been an honor to be here, to be counted as one of Jorge’s inner circle and to support him as best I could.

So as I sat cageside and Jorge’s last fight started in the same city our friendship had begun, I just wished to God that he would come out on top. As the fight started, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, as if I was the one about to fight. They began and Jorge had a bad start, but he hung in there, and although he lost the first round, he looked confident going into the second round. He shrugged off a takedown and landed a strong right hand. Moments later, Jorge Rivera’s last fight in the Octagon ended via TKO.

I can honestly tell you I don’t think I would have been happier if the win had been my own.

The first trip to Nashville saw us all go out to a swanky nightclub and party into the night around people we barely knew, seeing people and being seen and all that nonsense. This time around, it was just a small group of us renting out the top floor of a tiny bar: friends, family, and a few loyal vets that have supported Jorge for years.

“I just want to be around the people that matter, Nick,” was Jorge’s guidance.

I remember thinking simply, “I hope to always be on that list.”

Congratulations to a true warrior (in the Cav and in the Cage)on an incredible career. On to the next challenge, sir. We’re here every step of the way.

Love you, brother.

This weekend, as the clock struck midnight, Ranger Up launched our new Rugby brand, American Sin Bin.   It’s an idea that sprung up as early as January 2008, when then LTC Kelly Crigger invested in a fledgling Ranger Up.  At the time, there was frankly no way in hell that we could handle the idea.  We were a small apparel company focused on existing.

I was working a corporate job during the day and Ranger Up every night until about 2AM.  Tommy was living in the spare bedroom of my old house and getting paid in high-fives and attaboys and whatever we could spare after the bills were paid.

Nearly four years later, we find ourselves with an amazing operations team, an incredibly talented design team, and frankly, all of you – an Army of incredible support (and candid criticism when we deserve it) and we’re about to take on an incredible challenge – we’re going to set the conditions to bring home a Rugby World Cup Championship.

To people in the Rugby community, this may seem like an absurd notion, but that’s how we like to roll. The same month Crigger decided to invest in our idea the first article was written about RU in the Fayetteville Observer.  They asked me when I decided to start an apparel company.  I answered the same way that I do now: “Ranger Up isn’t an apparel company.  We’re a force created to make a difference in the veteran and military community.” I went on to say that they’d see us making some serious inroads in the non-profit community and eventually have the ability to affect change in government.

A lot of people wrote in online and scoffed at the idea.  One in particular, pissed me off:  “Give me a break.  These guys make funny t-shirts.  It takes a lot more than that to make a difference.  They need to get over themselves.”  I keep that quote on the Desktop of my computer.

I don’t really care what people think about me or our company.  I never have.  I revel in some people hating us, to be honest.  But I am a patriot and I look often to our nation’s past.  I find people who aggressively try to stamp out the efforts of others to be the lowest form of human parasite.  Not only do they not do for themselves and chase their own dreams, but they attempt to dissuade others from conquering their own.  This country was founded on the principle that one man can make a difference.  We are a land of opportunity – a land of frontiersmen cutting our current world out of the wilderness.  We are the world’s immigrants, arriving by sea, land and air, hoping and fighting for something more.  We can do anything, so long as we don’t quit, so long as we don’t allow ourselves excuses, so long as we don’t allow pessimism and self-hatred to stamp out the passion for something better.

Fast forward to present day. Ranger Up is a multi-million dollar company that has donated hundreds of thousands of dollars in apparel and cash to military charities, I have been honored to be elected to the Board of Advisors for Soldiers’ Angels, we’re working on developing a Veteran Housing Program as well as an Entrepreneurial Bootcamp for Vets, and we’re ready to take on the next challenge.

With that in mind, I am thrilled to announce that we’ve successfully lured New York Times Bestselling Author Kelly Crigger away from the public relations world and he has accepted a fulltime role as President of American Sin Bin.  If you’re a Rugger, know that this means we are guaranteed success because the man may be more of a workaholic than I am and twice as talented.  If you aren’t a rugger and find this American Sin Bin stuff to be a nuisance, know that RU has 100% of my attention and we’re going to keep pushing in some amazing directions in the next 365.

If you’re asking “Why are you sharing this?” it’s for the same reason that Tom and I personally answer every message sent our way on Facebook, Twitter, email, etc.  As I said in 2008, Ranger Up isn’t a t-shirt company. It’s the idea that motivated patriots can make a difference.  And this very important idea doesn’t work
without you.  We believe Ranger Up is your company too.  And I always want you to know what is going on in your company and why we are doing it.

Thank you, as always, for your support (and criticism).

RLTW

Nick

They won wars, shaped a nation, and developed treaties that required impeccable knowledge of various countries, personalities, and agendas. They paid attention to nuance and to the specific motivations of other congressmen to develop masterful compromises that moved the nation forward. They were, almost to a man, national heroes, who even when we disagreed with their opinion, we respected them as patriots and statesmen.

And now? Now, we universally hate Congress. 13% of Americans are happy with the job that Congress is doing, which is roughly the same percentage of people that have some form of mental illness. As Americans, we basically agree on three things: We like the Superbowl, we like Bruce Willis movies, and we fucking despise Congress. Not only that, but most Americans feel they would do a much better job than the average Congressman. Do you think that feeling was prevalent in Jefferson’s time? Think about that: we think the people we are electing to run the country have worse judgment, less intellect, and lower character than we do.

And what did we do about it? Well, for once, we all got off our asses and in the last election, we beat the crap out of the status quo and sent a clear message to both parties about our expectations of improved Congressional performance…or so we thought…

For the umpteenth time we’re sitting here with no budget. No budget. The baseline function of the legislative branch is to pass laws, develop a budget that correlates to our tax base, and spend that money for the greater good. And here we are, once again, with no budget. You guys can’t even make “hard” decisions like cutting spending on water taxis, art trails, organic food programs for public schools and skate board parks, never mind address more uncomfortable issues like the fact that social security is dying and we have a national healthcare program that no one understands and that we cannot afford. How is this possible? How do you wake up every morning, look at yourself in the mirror, and think anything other than “I am a total failure at life”. Newsflash: that’s what we all think of you.

And what happens if the budget isn’t passed by the 8th? The military doesn’t get paid, but “essential personnel” do and non-essential personnel get an unpaid vacation. Really? Who gets to decide what’s essential? Oh, that’s right. YOU. I’m assuming your offices are going to be kept in good repair, your staff will be paid, your rent for whatever apartments you hold in DC will be attended to, your transportation will continue, the people that handle your mistresses/boytoys will be taken care of, and your security will remain in place. One thing we absolutely need to ensure in all of this mess is that the incompetent people destroying our government and not performing the most basic element of their jobs are not inconvenienced!

So when the budget doesn’t pass, a population that is already stressed to the point where even the testosterone-fueled-we-don’t-feel-pain-or-admit-weakness military community has embraced the need to counsel soldiers for post-traumatic stress is now going to be tested further by not being provided with the means to pay their bills while they are deployed? This is the best we’ve got? This is what the Democrats and the Republicans have worked together to provide? They might as well just hand out a bunch of 45s with one bullet in them to everyone in uniform. We already have an enormous suicide problem, assholes. Thanks a lot.

Congress, here’s my advice based on my five years as a business owner. I fully admit I have a lot to learn, so others feel free to chime in:

1) Pass a goddam budget.

2) Better yet, how about you go for the gusto and determine an updated tax rate, forecast how much you will take in during the next year, and develop a budget equal to or less than that amount. I would prefer less, because we owe a fuckton of money to everyone, and I would like our country to not completely fall apart.

3) I realize that you can literally print money or borrow it from other nations at exorbitant interest rates, but consider, for an instant, that the long-term financial health of our nation should probably trump your ability to bolster your re-election chances by locking up loans from China so you can keep your local pork projects up and running. By way of comparison, if Ranger Up spent astronomically more than we made in even one year, not only would we go out of business, but everyone that invested in this company would be completely screwed, and we’d still owe taxes to the government(which you’d squander). So, while I realize it isn’t exactly the same thing, I can’t help but think…you know…all the spending more than our means bit…you should stop doing that…but, you know, I’m just a caveman…

4) If you completely disagree with me on points two and three, no worries. I realize there are different opinions on how much running a deficit hurts us, and I hardly claim to be an economist. Nevertheless, pass a goddam budget.

5) Another Ranger Up comparison:

While we do a whole lot more than this, in order to survive, Ranger Up has to do at least three things: Make shirts, Sell shirts, and Ship shirts. Tom, my COO, is one of my best friends. If even one day went by and he didn’t do those three things, he’d be formally counseled and kicked repeatedly in the babymaker. If two days went by and he didn’t do those things, he’d be fired, and he’d happily admit he had it coming, because his job is clear and I entrust him with a great deal of responsibility. But you know what? At the end of the day, we’re just shipping shirts.

You clowns approve the largest budget in the world and every freakin’ year it’s the same shit – a political standoff. Democrats, I’m pissed at you for not accepting the fact that the nation sent a clear message to change the financial status quo in the last election. Republicans, I’m pissed at you for being completely unreasonable and using this situation to propose a balanced budget amendment (which I would normally support) knowing that it will never pass right now. Both sides have decided to have a “big dick contest” over who is more righteous as you carefully plan your election strategy for 2012 while we have troops in Afghanistan, Iraq, Africa, Japan, Libya, and southern Africa actively engaged in combat or relief operations. Are you kidding me? Contest results: a) You’re all found wanting. b) Pass a goddam budget.

6) Psssssst, Congress…I’m whispering so no one will hear me: Being American is a pretty sweet gig. Most of us don’t appreciate it, but we have it about as good as it comes. Ask anyone who has actually been to a combat zone, third world country, peace corps mission, etc. (no your study abroad program to a western European country doesn’t count).

Our lives are so good and we have so much stuff that we pretty much ignore and accept that you are completely incompetent and corrupt. We turn our backs to the fact that both sides routinely claim to hate each other, while you hang out together, drink together, and hook each other up with ambassadorships and leadership positions in major government organizations that none of you are remotely qualified to handle. We ignore you when you espouse hardcore Christian ideology, call out others for adultery, and then get caught with three different women, two men, and a goat. We give you a pretty wide berth. All that we ask, I say again, ALL THAT WE ASK, is that you don’t completely fuck it all up, so we can continue to plan for our next weekend party instead of having to pay attention to your incompetence. Hint: We’re starting to pay attention to you. Pass a goddam budget.

7) Finally, if you really aren’t going to execute this simple and fundamental task, as is your charge, then everything, not just military pay, should be shut down. No power in government facilities, no security at the White House, Capitol, etc. No military actions of any kind. Your staff goes home. You pay for your own flight back, your own offices, your own apartment in DC. Federal school budgets go away, welfare checks cease, as does Medicare and social security. Everything comes to a screeching halt and the eyes of the country sharply turn to you. Right now you have the luxury of living an existence that even Paris Hilton doesn’t enjoy – one without consequence. You are complete failures. Do something right. Or at least give it a try. You might find that you like it.

8 ) Oops. I forgot one more thing: PASS THE GODDAM BUDGET.

Sincerely,

Nick

I have many a funny story about my good friend Dobbs, but the only thing you need to know right now is that right before CMTC, Dobbs bought the most spectacularly absurd wrap-around sunglasses. They looked like they were straight out of the 80s, yet somehow tactical. No one has seen anything like them before or since. The only thing they were missing was the shutters and bright red finish and we were in a Max Headroom Pepsi Commercial.

Anyway, Day One of Dobbs wearing these ridiculous shades, he had the most amazingly productive day ever, solving three major issues inside of four hours. SSG Roff looked at him and said, “Dobbs, what’s gotten into you? You’re on fire!”

Patterson chimes in, “It’s the shades.”

Lawrence adds, “It’s definitely the shades, sergeant.”

We instantly all agree that his special powers come from the amalgam of contorted plastic wrapped around his head and I announce, “Dobbs, when you’re wearing those you’re like a Transformer. You’re not just Dobbs anymore. You’re Dobtimus Fucking Prime.”

A nickname was born.

The Mission

I had only been with the mortars for about three months when we hit our first CMTC rotation in beautiful Hohenfels, Germany. It was the first mission for that rotation and our battalion commander wanted to “place his hairy eyeball” (we never really knew what that saying meant but he said it a lot) on every officer in the Task Force and discuss the mission at hand. When his impassioned speech concluded, he dismissed all personnel that didn’t have to attend his operations order.

“Yay, I can leave!”, I briefly thought.

Then I realized I was now a battalion asset. This was going to be a long afternoon.

My friend Jared, feeling sorry for me as he left the TOC to go join his platoon, took the opportunity to emblazon my dust-covered HMMWV with cute notes like, “Nick is a stupid penis-head”, “Nick loves gay cow sex”, and “Nick loves the Yankees”. While the first two were reasonable attacks, the latter was a bridge too far, and reciprocation was a moral imperative.

The REAL Mission

Now is an important time to note that I always go too far with this kind of stuff.

Never one to shy from abusing authority, I called into my fire control center and got the 10 digit grids for all of Jared’s vehicles. Dobbs and I pulled out Ye Olde Hohenfels Mappe and headed out. The plan was simple. Dobbs would pull up and bullshit with the guys while I pretended I had “Lieutenant Business” with Jared. In each cargo pocket I had a can of spray paint. I planned on leaving a lasting impression.

We arrive, shoot the shit a little, and I ask where Jared is. They point to a Bradley. I walk to it, turn the corner so I am out of sight and start spray painting what Jared prefers to do to goats and pigs while I giggle to myself. It was at that moment that a) both the driver and gunner of this BFV came around the corner and b) I realized this was the platoon sergeant’s vehicle.

MOTHER FUCKER. Messing with the LT was one thing. The guys may have even let it go down. Spray painting bestiality comments on the PSG’s vehicle…well…infantry law pretty much stated that I needed to get my ass kicked.

The driver screamed out, “LT P just fucked with S’arnt Z’s Bradley! Get him! Get him!”

Fight or Flight!

The jig was up. I needed to pop smoke ASAP. In my mind, Dobtimus Prime had the vehicle running, foot on the gas and brake, and the second my ass hit the seat, he was gonna drop the hammer and we’d be homefree before most of the platoon knew what hit them.

As I continued running, my confidence was building. Even though the 3rd platoon guys were echoing the assault charge in earnest, there was still lots of confusion and I had a good lead. Seconds before, I had heard the HMMWV engine roar to life. I was going to make it! As I turned the corner, I saw my oasis…driving away at top speed.

Fucking Dobbs had left me.

I kept running for another minute, but my fate was inevitable and I decided to turn and let the ass-kicking commence. As I spun on my heel to face Jared’s platoon, I felt like I was re-watching the movie Braveheart. A mob of forty was descending upon me and they were going to get their revenge. The first few idiots charged ahead, but the majority stuck together and held the line.

Fastest guy got there first and instantly regretted it as he realized he weighed 155 pounds and I did not. I threw him like a rag doll just in time to duck under a punch from number two guy. I shot a high crotch single on him, picked him up, and slammed him as hard as I could into the ground. He let out a pathetic gasping sound. Then the mob hit me.

When Mobs Attack:

For those of you that have never been attacked by a mob, you should know there is no way to win unless you have two katanas and your name is Miyamoto Musashi. The fact that you bench press 400 pounds or just got your BJJ purple belt really doesn’t matter at all. You are going to get beat up. I have been attacked by several mobs, but I chalk that up to bad luck and not anything that I did. Nevertheless, I have developed five helpful tips for minimizing damage:

Nick Mob Rule number 1: Protect your limbs. If you leave them hanging out there, some jackass is going to yank an appendage one way while another guy jumps on the pile, and next thing you know your shoulder is out of socket.

Nick Mob Rule number 2: Protect your face. People get exhuberant in mobs. You want to avoid concussions and eye pokes and keep your wits about you as long as possible.

Nick Mob Rule number 3: Protect your genitals. If the reasoning for this rule is not obvious, I implore you not to follow it.

Nick Mob Rule number 4: Build a frame. If you are lying flat on your stomach or back, all the weight of the mob is on your rib cage. No bueno. I find the wrestling “turtle position” to be most advantageous as you can support lots of weight and use your elbows and knees to protect your head and vital organs.

Nick Mob Rule Number 5: Hurt one guy as quickly as possible. The others may feel bad and stop to help him. And if they don’t, well, at least you got one of those bastards.

At the bottom of the pile…AGAIN.

The mob hit me like the All Blacks Rugby Team. I got rolled several times while they doled out punishment, but quickly built my frame, turtled up, and started crawling as best I could, looking for my victim. A wayward leg hit my arm and stayed an instant too long and BAM, it became my property. As the mob continued to bull me over, I dragged this poor soul down with me. I pummeled him, elbowed him, torqued on his leg, pinched him, head butted his ribs – I did my best to do whatever I could do with whatever body part I had that wasn’t being thrashed at any given moment to bring him pain.

The guy started to scream bloody murder. I continued.

Finally, I heard SFC Z screaming for everyone to stop.

They did.

I stood up and apologized to the sergeant I was just assaulting.

“Holy shit, sir! You okay?” Sergeant Z asked.

“Why do you ask?”

Jared was laughing.

I looked at my hands.

Blood. I could feel it pouring out of my nose and mouth.

I felt my face with my hands.

More blood.

I did the nose and teeth check.

Whew. Still present and unbroken.

“I’m good, Sergeant Z. Sorry about that. I meant to spray paint that your LT fucked goats and pigs, not you.”

This response seemed reasonable to all parties involved. I love the Military.

“Did Dobbs just fucking leave?” I ask.

Jared was laughing his ass off now as he reenacted how quickly Dobbs sped into the sunset. Jared being Jared, there were 107 iterations that needed to be physically acted out. My three favorites involved a Lethal Weapon style hood slide, a cartwheel-summersault-backflip into the gunner’s hatch, and one version where Dobbs caught a wave on a surfboard that apparently had miraculously appeared at the opportune moment.

“Great leadership, sir”, Sergeant Z threw out.

“You really seem to be making a difference over there. I’m sure Dobbs just went for help”, chuckled Sergeant Robb.

“Dude, you’re like the worst platoon leader, ever”, added Jared with a shit-eating grin on his face.

Return Home

I hop out of Jared’s HMMWV as my guys notice that I am completely fucked up.

“Sir, what the hell happened?” asked Roff.

“Dobbs left me to get my ass kicked,” I answered.

“What?” Lawrence chimed in.

“You left the LT?” Patterson asked. “Damn, man! That shit’s cold!”

Dobbs smirked an uncomfortable smirk and tries to walk away as the guys bust his balls.

“Hey Dobbs!” I shout.

He turns around.

“You’re not Dobtimus Prime. You’re not even a Transformer anymore,” I declared in my command voice.

“You know what you are, Dobbs?” I ask as I walk up to him and poke my finger into his chest, letting the anticipation build.

“You’re a fucking Gobot!”

Epilogue

I pissed blood for a couple days.

The paint that I used could not be removed or painted over. Apparently the special paint the Army uses on Bradley Fighting Vehicles isn’t the same as the Krylon I had handy. The vehicle had to get repainted at higher, so SFC Z fucked goats and pigs for the rest of the rotation. This was incredibly amusing to me.

SSG Roff and Austin had a mock serious intervention with me claiming I was too hard on Dobbs. Demoting him to Bumblebee or Jazz was one thing, but a Gobot? A Scooter he was not.

Dobbs eventually got his Dobtimus Prime moniker back.

Nick, Tommy, and Crigger love writing, but conquering the world takes time and effort, so we need help. Ranger Up needs new writers and we’re taking the Rhino Den up a notch by hiring 2-4 talented narcissistic assholes from any branch of service to join our team.

The Job:

1) Write no more than one article a week and no fewer than two articles a month.

2) Articles have to be over 600 words and under 1200 words.

3) Articles will focus on military/police/fire/first responder stories, current events and how they affect the military/police/fire/first responder community, or Emilio Estevez, as we believe he probably feels shitty now that Charlie Sheen gets all the love.

4) We have three flavors of acceptable writing: Funny, Funny, and Serious, but with a Funny Twist.

5) Payment: $100 or $100 worth of gear per accepted article.

The Contest:

Week 1:

By 20 March 2011, submit a Douche of the Week article to business@rangerup.com. We’ll post any acceptable articles on the RhinoDen and pay each writer whose article is posted $100 for their work. We’ll allow our Facebook members to vote and the writers of the 4-6 articles with the most “Likes” will be offered a Week 2 assignment.

Week 2:

By 27 March 2011, submit a personal story of a ridiculous situation you were in to business@rangerup.com. Be funny. We’ll post any acceptable articles on the RhinoDen and pay each writer whose article is posted $100 for their work. We’ll allow our Facebook members to vote and the writers of the 2-4 articles with the most “Likes” will be offered a Job at Ranger Up and an additional $100 gift certificate.

The absolute winner with the most likes total will receive a $250 gift certificate in lieu of the $100 and the opportunity to embarrass him or herself in a Ranger Up Video.

Week 3:

Ranger Up announces the winners on 5 April 2011.

Perks:

1) Awesomeness.

2) A magical unicorn that will take you wherever you want to go*
*Unicorns only available while supplies last.

They just don’t like us. They find us unpalatable. They believe we don’t understand what they understand. They think we didn’t have other options or are too ignorant to realize we are just government pawns.

And you know what? If they said that, honestly, it would be cool. It’s a private organization. It’s America. The military isn’t even really interested in having ROTC there. Let’s face it – Columbia is hardly going to be an officer-producing hub. Hell, half these kids’ parents would cut them off from their trust funds if they even looked at a military uniform.

But they can’t say that because they are self-important, over-analyzing, out-of-touch, spoiled little douchebags. As I monitor the debates by their student body and administration with, honestly, very little interest and even less surprise, I am reminded of my time at Duke, and how much I hated it there.

While I was fairly certain that Columbia’s douchery was going to be roughly on par with what we had going on when I partook in the majesty that is Duke, I reached out to my ex-infantryman friend currently attending Columbia for his thoughts. Here is his completely unedited response:

What I can say is that the majority of the people who are taking up the anti-ROTC position have no idea what they’re talking about. Their arguments aren’t logically flawed. They’ve just completely missed the point of the issue, so they don’t even know what premises to start from. For example, there was a girl – must have been an undergrad – who was in line with us last night holding a sign that said NO MILITARIZATION OF EDUCATION. That educated people can have this sort of sentiment astounds me. They seem to think that allowing ROTC on campus would entail the military replacing the dorms with barracks and putting the entire student body through its own curriculum. They don’t seem to understand thatno one in the military is proposing any change to their education whatsoever. It’s like, Congrats, you’ve managed to COMPLETELY miss the point of what’s actually at issue here. The only change being proposed is Columbia University’s institutional relationship with the Reserve Officer Training Corps, a commissioning source for officers in the US military. The only actual on-the-ground implication is that some of her fellow students would be affiliated with the program as students, and would then be commissioned as military officers upon graduation. That’s it. The program doesn’t even draw on university resources. In other words, think of it this way: If Columbia University were proposing adding a soccer club whose members would be considered for employment as professional soccer players upon graduation, this girl should be just as willing to hold a sign saying NO SOCCERIZATION OF EDUCATION.

It’s important to note that this complete ignorance about the military among the academic elite is a result of the schism that took place between elite academia and the military during the Vietnam era. Those two segments of society have now been almost mutually exclusive for 40 years now. So we have a full generation of academic elite – and I’m including both students and professors in that strata – who have no family in the military, no friends in the military, no interaction with any military members, and no knowledge of the military or how it actually works whatsoever. By preventing ROTC programs to return to elite academic institutions, they’re proposing that we actively prolong and exacerbate that problem so that they can continue to live in their little bubbles rather than learn about something that apparently makes them uncomfortable. This from people who champion open-mindedness and diversity.

*Photo by Kelly of ShootMePretty.com

I just read Steve Tobak’s article entitled “Why Veterans Make Great Entrepreneurs”. Mr. Tobak is a consultant, advisor, former top executive, writer for CBS, and likely an expert on a great many things.

I am pissed off.

It isn’t that Mr. Tobak meant any harm. In fact, as the title suggests, Mr. Tobak claims that veterans are pretty good at this entrepreneurship thing, owning 3.6 million or 13% of all small businesses. He goes on to highlight how amazing that feat is while crediting us with leadership, decision-making, and organizational skills. So far so good, right? Then I got to this little backhanded, pat-on-the-head-for-you-simpleton-barbarians-who-try-hard ditty: But something else is highly counterintuitive about veterans being suited to entrepreneurial life. Discipline, duty, and strict regimen are major factors in military life. In the business world, and especially for entrepreneurs, focus is indeed important but so is flexibility and adaptability. And managers can’t successfully motivate employees the way officers “order” their troops. That’s a whole different ballgame.

Gosh, Mr. Tobak, that is how I remember military service – especially the infantry! Officers would give an order and they’d never be questioned! The guys would just execute, no matter how dumb it was or how perilous. Even the worst officers would never be undermined. After all – it was the RULE to obey them! And plans NEVER changed. We’d write an operations order and everything would happen exactly as we said it would. We’d always let the enemy, weather, and Murphy know the plan well in advance so there couldn’t possibly be an issue. Rigid discipline and the following of orders – that’s the secret to military success. Ideally, we’d just have robots, but we don’t quite have that technology yet.

If it was just this one ignorant writer, this article wouldn’t be worth responding to, but I have heard time and time again since leaving the military from multitudes of people who have never served and never tried to understand those that have that military people aren’t flexible or adaptable and that we rely on a strict hierarchy and providing orders. I’ve had this conversation in several interviews with well-meaning people all across corporate America. To be brutally honest, when I look at their life experiences and juxtapose them against mine and those of the people I have served with, I feel like what I imagine Peyton Manning would if a fifty-two year old ex-high school backup quarterback was giving him a critique of his passing motion or Michael Moore would feel if Mother Teresa was giving him tips on how to be a bigger douchenozzle.

I had just turned 23 when I took my first platoon into Kosovo. I had 39 guys under my command, four Bradley Fighting Vehicles, worth a kajillion dollars, and eight up-armored HMMWVs. We lived in an embalming station next to a Serb church that was a high value target for the Albanians. When it rained, rat and bird feces rained down on top of us. My Platoon Sergeant actually got tuberculosis from it. I saw my company commander no more than once a week and had complete autonomy over multiple towns in my sector. At the beginning of our time there, there was significant violence between the Albanians and Serbs, including a grenade attack on a kindergarten. There were riots, we were shot at, and generally had a terrible rapport with all parties involved. It was almost as challenging as having a really big PowerPoint presentation due for the VP of It-Doesn’t-Matter-I’m-Not-Going-to-Do-Anything-That-Will-Place-Any-Risk-On-My-Career-Even-If-It-is-a-Brilliant-Idea-So-I-Will-Sharpshoot-Anything-That-Comes-Before-Me and you just didn’t know how you could possible finish it in time. Well…maybe it wasn’t quite that serious, but close…

So given that we were inflexible military guys we simply stood around festering in our feces shower and awaited orders so we could follow them…or not. Our mission was to quell violence and restore peace to this province and the two ways to do that were: 1) Kill everyone here or 2) Start figuring out what the major problems were and work to find a solution.

We opted for column B. We determined getting to know people was critical, so we cut down on our mounted patrols and started doing a whole lot of walking. My guys figured out pretty quickly that the kids liked us the most, so we’d get a lot of information from them. We identified who the town leaders were, and more importantly, who was reasonable and who was respected. We immediately started building relationships with those people. When they asked for something on behalf of the town, we made it happen. When the radicals on either side asked…well…maybe we missed it. This gave the leaders that didn’t want everyone on the other side dead a whole lot of power. Hell, we even let these guys use our generators and provided security for their weddings. I made it a point to have coffee with each one of them a few times a week. They started solving many of our problems and helped us spot the troublemakers in the population, as well as become more vocal about their real concerns.

One of the big gripes that everyone had was the lack of jobs. You know what military-aged men do when they aren’t working? They drink. You know what drunk, angry, military-aged guys do? They get brave enough to act impulsively. Impulsive behavior often involved guns. We liked to be the only guys running around with guns, so we, along with our sister platoons in the area, requested the resources to fix up some of the old factories and businesses in the area so people could get back to work…and there was much rejoicing.

Even with the increase in jobs, there was still a lot of tension between some of the Serb leaders and my guys. I spoke to the new mayor (a moderate – go figure?) and asked for his recommendation. He thought a weekly soccer game between the soldiers and the locals would be a good idea. This was Kosovo, not Iraq or Afghanistan, so this was entirely reasonable. Another unit would come in and pull security and every week we’d play (and generally get our asses kicked) by the locals. Soccer, after all, is a silly game. Nevertheless, now we had something to talk about with all of them throughout the week, and we became more human to them. Again, things got better for all parties and violence in our area truly went to zero. In our spare time, we taught ourselves how to do roof work and refurbished and re-shingled our little embalming station.

None of these decisions or actions came from anyone’s orders. They came from my guys and me working together, bringing up ideas, and focusing on solving problems in order to successfully complete the challenging mission we had been assigned. Not bad for automaton droids. Perhaps, much like R2, we malfunctioned.

I’m very proud of what we did on that deployment, but my challenges and the challenges of my platoon then pale in comparison to what a 23 year old has to accomplish in Iraq or Afghanistan now. Imagine yourself assaulting through Baghdad, “winning the war”, and then realizing you had to completely change tactics from an army-on-army desert mounted war to a door-to-door fight against a local insurgency, then a few years later, completely change tactics again and move out further from the FOBs and get to know the people even more and start to work with the locals, and then change tactics again and have to rely increasingly on the locals for a great measure of your own security. Not only that, but you have to learn the culture and customs for as many as four vastly different groups, act as warriors, police, diplomats, builders, all while trying to balance a constantly changing set of directives from higher up and increasingly restrictive rules of engagement. Sound fun? I have friends with over ten deployments, and they’ll tell you each one was markedly different with even more diverse challenges.

So yeah, while I fully admit that one has to be a regular Reed Richards to maintain the flexibility necessary to graduate college, get an entry level job in a large corporation, and move up the ladder at a virtually predetermined rate in jobs that are often pretty-much spoon fed to you, I still kinda think that those of us who spent a day or two in the military may know a smidgeon about adaptability, but hey I don’t write for CBS, so I may be wrong. As for the giving orders bit, I guess I have no real response to that one. After all, as I recall that in my military days most of my leaders spent every day giving orders and micro-managing, as opposed to providing a mission and a loose commander’s intent and then allowing their subordinates to devise their own plan and execute it. Conversely, if my time working in corporate America taught me anything, it’s that every single manager that I encountered was a great leader who always presented good reasons for his or her orders…errr…I mean requests…yeah, orders sound friendlier when they’re called requests, right? Each one of them really cared about their people and always tried to see our perspective and help us succeed and would selflessly take one on the chin to protect us. They were never small-minded people who clung to the tiny bit of pathetic power they had and used it to belittle their employees to make themselves feel superior. Honestly, I wish more military leaders modeled themselves after corporate managers. I think we’d really get somewhere. Well played, Tobak. You’ve cut to the core of me. I can see why CBS has you on the payroll.*

*The only sarcasm in that paragraph was between the words “So yeah” and “payroll”.

Let’s really look at the numbers: The Kauffman Foundation, as well as many other well-respected firms and President Obama’s own staff, have recently concluded that job growth comes entirely from startups and small business. Companies in the first year of business add three million jobs to the U.S. economy. In their second year, they add one million. Compare that to large industry, with a well established bureaucracy and a focus on cost cutting and outsourcing, and you’ll find that since 1965, America has lost one million jobs a year from big business. So yes, the growth of our tax base comes entirely from entrepreneurs.

Hmmm…but how much business can small business really produce? Well, in 2009, entrepreneurs accounted for a paltry $22 TRILLION in revenue, with veteran-owned businesses producing $2.85 trillion of that. According to the census, there are 154 million working Americans. There are 9.8 million working age veterans, but 1.5 million are still in uniform. That means we have 8.3 million / 154 million or 5.38% of the working population, but yet deliver 13% of the growth. In point of fact, a veteran is 2.5 times more likely to start a small business than a non-veteran. We start more businesses (and succeed in them I might add) than any other population.

So while I agree with Mr. Tobak that Vets are the Beatles of entrepreneurship, I disagree starkly on the why and certainly don’t see our success as counter-intuitive. In my anything-but-humble opinion, I believe vets succeed for the following steely-eyed, freedom-loving reasons:
1) Nothing I will ever do in my life, unless I am elected President, will ever be as important or have as much of an impact as my time in the military. Every decision matters. You learn to operate at a very high level.

2) We don’t quit…ever…even when reason tells us we should.

3) If we’re not getting shot at, get to eat every day, and sleep every night, we’re generally pretty happy. This perspective helps a ton in the stressful world of entrepreneurship.

4) We’re the most flexible, creative, and adaptable people on the planet…except for maybe those guys at Apple – those bastards could create an iPooFlingingMonkey and we’d all buy it and brag about it.

5) We have been forced to operate in demanding, high-stress, non-artificial environments and succeed. In the military, things are often crystal clear – we know whether we won or lost – whether we did well or failed instantly. We don’t have a boss arbitrarily deciding if the mission was completed. This makes us our own harshest critic, which is essential as an entrepreneur, where blaming others (including luck) is a quick path to failure.

6) We’re team players. We like to succeed together. It actually makes life more rewarding and fun.

7) We care about our people. They aren’t just cogs in the big machine. We spend tons of time making sure we know them and are meeting their needs and not just rating them on how they perform for us.

8 ) And all that other nice stuff Mr. Tobak said about us.

So in short, after we serve our country as warriors in the most extraordinary situations imaginable while often getting criticized by academia, social elites, and others of their ilk, we shed the uniform, enter business, and kick their cowardly asses by producing more economic growth and national wealth per capita than any other population.

You’re welcome.

This article is not meant to bash those that haven’t served. Far from it. I owe a lot to entrepreneurs who have reached out to help me learn, to many of the brilliant civilians who serve on the boards of the military charities that Ranger Up works with, and to a lot of great friends. I’m just tired of having the majority of the population treat us like we’re automaton droids who do a job “anyone can do”. My point is simple: Vets kick ass, and while I will never criticize anyone’s decision not to serve (I love that we all have a choice here), I will not let anyone believe for an instant that their lack of service makes them superior in the business world. It’s condescending, academic, elitist drivel and the facts simply don’t support that contention.

“Quit smirking,” I snarled at the plebe in front of me. “I’m not sure why you think it is funny that you just got your ass kicked.” The kid actually hadn’t gotten his ass kicked, but he had just lost one of his four mandatory plebe boxing matches in a close decision. Apparently a lot of other people had joked with him about it – how much boxing sucked, etc. and he thought that I was going to have the same reaction when he explained how he had done.

“You should be fucking pissed off man. I’m not sitting here telling you that you need to be a professional boxer or that you should go and sulk in the corner, but you just got beat up because someone else either had more skill or wanted it a hell of a lot more. Is that funny?”

“No, sir,” came the prompt response.

“Look man. I’m not going to sit here and tell you I know what combat is like. I’ve got one year on you and I sure as shit haven’t been there, but I know that, if nothing else, finding that killer instinct when someone is trying to knock you the fuck out is important.”

“Yes, sir,” he agreed.

“You need to make a decision man. You’re either gonna be a guy that laughs off failures or you’re gonna be a guy that learns from them and works hard so they never happen again. I know if I had to follow someone out the back of an airplane into combat I’d sure as shit want the guy who had done everything he could to be the best warrior he could, and not the guy who laughed off his failures as unimportant. How about you?”

It was my sophomore or “Yearling” year at West Point. I had successfully finished the dreaded plebe year and Camp Buckner, which meant it was time for me to have my own plebe and have my first military leadership position. My roommate and I each were given two kids to look after – it was our job to teach them how to succeed as a freshman at West Point. One of our four was a skinny, baby-faced kid with big ears by the name of Paul Carron. He was the subject of my current boxing is equal to life rant.

I won’t lie. When I first feasted my eyes on Paul I thought, “This kid is gonna have a rough time.” So my roommate Nate and I did all things that Yearlings do to make sure he’d succeed. We pushed him on knowledge, we tore apart his room and uniform to make sure they wouldn’t get in real trouble with the upperclassmen, and we PTed the crap out of him. The whole time I was waiting for the kid who looked like he was twelve to crack.

He just never did.

He would get this scrunched up look on his face, find a new deeper reserve, and keep moving. Over time we realized that Paul, the son of a Sergeant Major, was just never going to quit. Later that year, so impressed with the way he had performed, we asked him to represent our company in Sandhurst – an extremely rigorous international military competition that takes place over a nine mile obstacle course. It struck me as he completed the course next to me and we all collapsed from exhaustion that this baby faced kid had become a leader in his class. He worked hard, cared passionately about those around him, had maintained the NCO sensibility bestowed on him from his dad, and would not quit in the face of adversity or back down to any challenge. Paul Carron was going to be a great officer.

Years later, as I was going through the Captains Career Course, I bumped into Paul at Fort Benning. He had just taken a job as a platoon leader in 3/75 – he would go on to be an XO there as well. We grabbed lunch to catch up and I realized that while he looked every bit the part of the kid, he had changed markedly. His time in the real military had sharpened his focus on the need to train hard and take care of his soldiers, but he was also keen on how he fit into the Army and how he could make a difference in the larger organization. He sat there for an hour and explained his outlook on what he would contribute as I listened intently and provided what feedback I could. It was one of those awesome moments where you realize the kid you used to mentor had surpassed you as an officer.

We went our separate ways and bounded the occasional message back and forth, but in short order Army life pulled us both away to our own challenges and I lost sight of him again. Years later, I’d receive multiple emails from my West Point classmates letting me know that a letter Paul had written to the Washington Times had been published. The letter, included below, called several in the Hollywood and political arenas to task for their absurd comments about our Armed Forces. I couldn’t possibly have been prouder.

LETTER TO THE EDITOR. Published in the Washington Times 24 March 2006.

CAPT. PAUL CARRON
U.S. Army

At this point Paul was a Ranger Instructor at 5th Ranger Training Battalion. Coincidentally, one of the Duke students I had mentored had just returned for a weekend to celebrate his graduation from Ranger School in Durham. I asked him how it had gone and got the usual Ranger School gripe stories. He paused though and told me that one guy had been particularly hard on him and that he thinks the guy knew me.
“Oh yeah?” I asked.

“Yeah man. This guy was a Captain but he acted like an NCO on crack. If anyone fucked around even a little he was on them. Always relaying stories he had experienced. He just kept saying, ‘The work you do here makes all the difference when you get out there. You have to make a choice. Are you going to be the guy that just tries to slide by and brush off your failures as good enough or are you going to be a freakin warrior and try to crush every mission? I know who I’d want to follow. How about you?’”

“What was his name?” I asked.

“Captain Carron,” he responded.

“Paul Carron?” I asked.

“Yeah that’s it!”

It was my turn to smirk.

A year later, Paul was awarded the MacArthur Leadership Award for exemplary service and leadership, an honor awarded to only a handful of officers each year. He was on his way to making those changes he had begun to form early in his career. I’d expect nothing less.

Paul died in Afghanistan on September 18th, 2010, three days after his 33rd birthday. It was his fifth deployment. He left behind his loving wife Susan, his two-year old daughter, Madeline, and his unborn son. He also left behind the hundreds, if not thousands, of soldiers, much like me, who had the pleasure and honor of serving with him and being touched by his passion, kindness, character, and devotion to duty. He is the best our country had to offer, and I miss him dearly.

Rest in peace my friend.

Short version: Great book. The dude used these concepts to create a multi-billion dollar company. A major premise in this quick read is to build a specific culture for your company and to only hire people that fit that culture, even if others are extremely talented but don’t mesh. In Hsieh’s Zappotic World, this means hiring happy people that see the beauty in the everyday, value everyone’s opinion, treat people with dignity and respect, and want to spread happiness.

Extrapolated to the Ranger Uptiverse, we need to find sarcastic, absurdly confident, opinionated, attention-whore narcissistic alcoholics with virtually no feelings and whatever microscopic remnant of human feeling they have left needs to be buried under an admantium skin so thick that if the Titanic had been made from it, everyone on board would simply have been enjoying salt water slushies and we wouldn’t have had to endure that shitpot of a movie.

The Newb

So no shit, there we were: Ranger Up had grown to the point where it was time to hire another fulltime designer and we put the feelers out. We culled through over a hundred applications and finally made a job offer to Wrongfit Wrongcompanysteinawichano. Before I go on, I’d like to state, for the record, that Wrongfit is a very talented artist – we did, and still do, love his work. Moving on…Wrongfit’s job offer was made and he accepted – all he had to do was survive his final interview – spend a night partying with us at UFC Ultimate Fight Night 21 where we were going to support our friend and Ranger Up fighter Jorge Rivera.

Jorge Rivera is the man.

We should have been tipped off when he asked us if he could bring his parents with him to visit so they could help him “look for an apartment.” We should have been tipped off when he showed up pear-shaped at the age of 23. We should have been tipped off when Jorge, Holly, Matt, Tim, and everyone else we knew asked, “Is that REALLY your new designer?” (Tim Burrill flashback moment: All I remember is a pillow with legs, I’d say legs and arms but I don’t recall any arms. And he seemed soo confident for a man raised on estrogen.)

Instead we gave him the benefit of the doubt.

The Beginning of the End

The last thing I remember about leaving the bar is bartering with two girls about how long they would kiss Wrongfit simultaneously. They were shrewd negotiators and talked me down from 38 minutes to seven seconds. Nonetheless, Wrongfit left Jorge Rivera’s afterparty by hammering back two tequila shots and telling me that it was the best night of his entire life. Life seemed good.

Crigger and Whitney are happy...

Quote 1 (after she had called Wrongfit a wetback and we told her that was kind of fucked up): Stereotypes are based off of statistics.

Quote 7 (this was just a random racist comment for no reason): My grandparents live in the outskirts and we’re known as gringos. Por favor. Muchas gracias senor. I hate wetbacks. They call white girls gringas.

Tracy Lee, Jordan, Lauren, Blakely and especially Nick are happy...

Kris McCray and his dad are happy...

The Next Morning – Tommy’s Perspective

I am completely dead. While Nick got to go to the after party and the afterafter party I was chugging Monster Energy Drinks and driving a 15pax van full of wounded warriors back to Bragg. There is absolutely no way I’d have traded going to said parties for the privilege of driving those troops back and forth, but by the time I got to my boy Jim’s place it was 5am, my phone’s battery was on life support, and I was more than a little cracked out from the deadly combo of caffeine overload and a lack of sleep. I slapped my phone on the charger and tried to catch a couple of Z’s on Jimmy’s couch. At about 7:30am my text chime goes off. It’s Wrongfit.

“Hey man, I’m back in Durham. Nick ditched me last night. I tried to find him in the lobby, couldn’t, so I hopped in a cab and came back here.”

Lex McMahon and Ross Pearson are happy while Nick remains happy...

And then there's Tommy...

The Next Morning – Nick’s Perspective

I wake up at about 8am. I don’t want to be up, but I am about to drive Jorge Rivera to the Warrior Transition Center at Bragg, so I sit up, pop some Ranger Candy, down a Gatorade and look at my phone. I have multiple texts from Tom. The key one states the following: “Dude. I don’t know what the fuck you did to him last night, but Wrongfit is pissed. He took a cab back last night to his parent’s hotel in Durham. I think he is quitting.”

I, of course, thought Tommy was kidding. It was too absurd of a story to comprehend, and absurd stories are sort of my thing. I mean, I left him two doors down and now he was three hours away in Durham? Good one, Tommy. I’m assuming McMahon had something to do with this as well.

I text Tom back something along the lines of “Sure he did. How was the drive last night?”

Seconds later I got back an angry text from Tom about how the kid really did go back to Durham. I chuckled and shouted to Lex, half-awake in the other bed that the newb got so drunk he thought a cab ride to Durham was a good idea. I texted to Tom “Classic Ranger Up night. Good that on day one we already have something to screw with him about.”

Back to Tom

Nick’s dismissive texts are not helping me out and I’m starting to fear that he really did run the kid off. Wrongfit’s an art kid. Art kids are sensitive. Neither Nick nor I have been particularly sensitive at any point in our lives, let alone when we’re three sheets to the wind. Ok, time for a more direct stance on the situation:

“Nick,” I text, “you need to call him and fucking apologize, you ditched the kid, and he’s not a Ranger man. Durham is extreme, sure, but you need to fix this!”

I get a “Seriously? Well what do you want me to do man!?” back.

“Call him!” I text

“Ok.” I can tell Nick’s not happy but, in my mind I think “Well dude, you did this.”

Two airborne minutes later I get a text back from Nick “I think we’re cool, I told him some day we’d all laugh about this later.”

I call Wrongfit, “Hey man.” I tell him as I pick up, “Nick said he talked to you…”

“Yeah man, he tried to make a joke out of it. A joke out of just up and leaving me like that!”

“I am not very happy right now”, Wrongfit goes on “I was kinda wiggin out dude, and that cab ride was like 300 bucks, man.”

This was getting worse.

Wrongfit continued, “I left my bag in your van man, I’d really like to get it back.”

“As soon as I can get back to Durham and hook you up bro, I will,” I tell him, finally, firmly getting pissed. “I’m sorry about this Wrongfit, I’ll make sure this all gets sorted out.” My mind is racing. So far this kid has told me my president/business partner/friend ditched him, then dismissively made fun of him over it, generally seems to have acted a complete and utter fool, and really doesn’t seem to care.

Ok, phone call time:

“Hey buddy,” Nick says by way of usually phone greeting.

“Dude…” I start, my best “What the hell, Sir” NCO tone kicking. “What the hell?!? What happened?!”

“Nothing dude! He was fine when Lex and I left him, he was with Reed man!”

“Nick,” I started in. I’ve already charted the course in my tired brain and I wasn’t going to take dissipation of responsibility at this point, no sir. “He was YOUR responsibility, I mean come on dude, what were you thinking, you just up and left him?” In hind sight I still wonder why I believed the fucking art kid over my Ranger Buddy, particularly since his modus operendi is more along the “sharpie a phallus on the passed out guy” motif, rather than abandonment. I guess I’ll just take my major minus for droning out right now please.

Back to Nick

I’m driving with Tim O’Donnell and Jorge Rivera on my way to Fort Bragg and I am pissed off at Tom. He seems to think I did something nefarious to this kid. I am almost yelling into the phone, while Jorge chuckles. “I LEFT HIM TWO DOORS DOWN TOM. Not in the bar. Not on the street. TWO FUCKING DOORS Down!!!! We tried to take him back with us, but he wanted to stay with this awful girl. He’s a grown fucking man. How is this my fault?!”

And…Back to Tommy

“Wait what?” I asked Nick. That didn’t marry up at all to what Wrongfit had told me on the phone. Nick is a lot of things, including an asshole that could potentially run a new employee right out of the company in less than 24 hours, but he’s not a liar.
“Yeah man, he was with some annoying, evil, fucking chick, dude, and he was trying to mack on her! What was I going to do, call him after he’d been gone for 45mins and ask ‘hey Wrongfit, you having sex? No? How about now? Yes?! Great, that’s awesome buddy!’”

The gears are starting to turn in my head, and slowly tumblers are starting to click into place.

“Alright dude, alright but how the hell did he end up in cab back to Durham?”

“How the fuck should I know!?!” Nick fired back, not really calming down. “Why the fuck didn’t he just get another room in the same hotel, why didn’t he call me? HE DIDN’T CALL ME! Or why didn’t he call you or Whitney, or Lex or any one of the other fucking numbers he had. Why was his first reaction in this easily solvable situation to call his FUCKING MOM?! When’s the last time you called your mom to solve one of your problems, Tom?”

Hmmm, these are all good points, and they’re all points that are adding up to more minor minuses for me and major holes in Wrongfit’s story. Suddenly, I’m starting to smell Type-B-isms.

“You’re right dude, you’re right,” I tell Nick.

I try calling Wrongfit back and get his voicemail. Issue or not, Wrongfit was going to have to wait because we all had to get over to the Warrior Transition Center for Jorge Rivera to sign some autographs for the troops that couldn’t make it to the fights.

I got there early, and about 20 minutes later Jorge, Nick, Lex, and Tim walk in. Nick barely looks at me as he starts helping Jorge out. I corner Lex.

“Dude what happened last night man?” I ask him.

“Man fuck that kid!” Lex said. “Bro, we did everything for that kid last night and we left him with a girl he was trying to mack on and he knew where to find us, you know, fifty fucking feet away! Fuck that kid.”

I am now officially annoyed. Half an hour later, my phone rings. It’s Wrongfit.

“Hey dude, you back yet, I need my stuff,” he tells me by way of greeting.

“No dude, I told you, I have to stay here a little longer for the signing, but umm dude- did Nick and Lex leave you in a room with some chick last night?” I ask.

Jorge was the RIGHT fit with the troops...

“And did they tell you where the room you all were supposed to stay in was?”

“Umm, yeah they did. I knocked quietly man, but they didn’t get up.”

You’re kidding me.

“Why did you knock softly dude? For that matter dude why didn’t you call Nick or Lex, you had their numbers right?”

“Dude when they didn’t answer the door I figured they were asleep and I didn’t want to wake them up. So I went to the lobby, and no one called me. No one came down to the lobby to check on me. I was in the lobby for like half an hour, 45 minutes. Nothing so, like, an hour later I figured the best thing to do was just go back to Durham so I called my Mom and then hopped in cab.”

Rage. Starting. To. Build.

“Ok dude, well I have to do this signing for the wounded troops. As soon as I get back I will call you and we can get you, your stuff and figure out the hotel room for tonight and stuff like that.” I tell him, pure professional voice.

“Ok dude, ummm, what time do you think that’ll be?” Wrongfit asks me in a whiny voice.

“As soon as I can make it happen, man,” I tell him in reply. Get fucked Jr. is what I was thinking.

“Ok…” Wrongfit tells me, slightly downtrodden. To this day I still wonder what the hell was in that bag, he was a relentless fucker about getting it back.

“Dude…” I started as I went up to Nick, “he never called you did he?”

“NO MAN! That’s what I have been fucking telling you!!!” Nick exploded at me.

“Dude I’m sorry,” I started. “He never told me that he was in a hotel room with a girl he just said you and Lex disappeared and he never mentioned at first that you’d told him the room or anything like that. He made it sound like you guys just up and got pissed off at him or something and were all like ‘fuck the new guy’ and left him on the cold Charlotte streets. I’m sorry dude.” I tell Nick.

“Wait, he never told you about that?” Nick asked me.

“Nope.”

Jorge remains 100% the man...

“Here’s your stuff dude,” I told him as I handed him his pack.

“Thanks man,” he tells me, refusing to make eye contact.

“Dude, look I was talking to Nick and Lex and like I have to ask this, why did you think that coming back here was a good idea? I mean, bro, it wasn’t like they just up and ditched you like you kinda made it out to be. They left you a couple rooms away with a chick bro.”

“I knocked man!” Wrongfit whined back. “And then I went down into the lobby and waited for awhile and nobody came to get me.”

“Dude you even said you didn’t knock loud enough for them to hear you man! Come on dude. Also, why didn’t you call me? Or call Whitney? You had both our numbers right?”

“Well… yeah, I guess.”

“Ok, so why didn’t you call us, dude we would have handled the problem, for that matter why didn’t you just crash in Reed or Tim’s room?”

“Dude, I didn’t know them, I wasn’t just going to stay with someone I didn’t know!” Wrongfit’s whining was getting worse the more commonsense was shined on the situation.

“Ok, so you’re in the lobby, you haven’t called anyone, you didn’t really knock on the door for the room, what made you think it was a good idea to take a $300 cab ride back here man? You could have gotten a room at the hotel for like half that.”

“It just seemed like the best idea I had at the time!” Wrongfit exploded in a whiny, annoying emo kid voice. “Look man, when I was in that lobby I was interviewing you guys too, you know. No one came and got me, no one called me, no one checked on me to see if I was ok. No one did anything for me, so I did the best thing I could think of called my mom. I had to have my parents cover the cab ride for me man!”

I have a choice, I can either beat the ever living hell out of the kid in the parking lot of the hotel, or I can walk in, pay the night for the room we’d agreed to pay for him, and just leave.

I choose option B.

“How’d it go?” Nick asked me as he picked up the phone.

“If I ever see the little fucking shit again I’m going to rip his whiny bitch throat out. You aren’t going to believe what that fucker had the gall to say to me,” I yelled into the phone. The circle was now complete. I was full on Ranger pissed.

“What’d he say?”

“Oh, just that he was ‘interviewing us’ when he was sitting in the lobby with his thumb up his ass and that it was the ‘best idea he had’ when he hopped in the fucking cab!”

“You’re kidding me?”

“Nope, I wanna kill that little fucker, and dude, I’m so sorry I ever doubted you like that.”

“I don’t need an apology man. All I want to hear is all I am and all I ever will be I owe to Nick Palmisciano.”

“I hate you, Nick.”

The Piece De Resistance – Nick’s Perspective

The phone rings.

“It’s Wrongfit!” I announce to Tom.

I pick up the phone.

“Hey,” comes my curt greeting.

“Uh, hey man. How is it going?”

“Fine. What do you need?”

“I figured we could talk. After the way I was treated and…you know…the fact that my parents had to see all of this…I don’t really think I am ready to come down here to work for you guys yet. I think we have to build that trust up over time. I’d still like to design for you though from home.”

“Wrongfit, did you enjoy the fights last night?”

“Yes, a ton.”

“Did you like being a VIP at the afterparty?”

“Yeah man, it was awesome!”

“Did we introduce you to girls?”

“Yes, you guys were cool about that.”

“Did we pay for you to fly down here and party all weekend?”

“Yes, you did, but…”

“I’m not done. Did you tell me this was the best weekend of your life Saturday night?”

“Yes, but…”

“Okay, so to be clear, right up until the point that we left you two doors down in a hotel room with a girl you made clear you wanted to hook up with, this was the best weekend of your life?”

“Yes, but then…”

“Then what? Then you decided that rather than knock on the door so we could hear you, call any of us, get another room, or hell, even crash in the lobby, your gut instinct was to call Mom?”

“You guys left me…”

“Yes, we did. Two door down. Look man, you’re a nice guy, but you and I have arrived at the same conclusion – you are not right for this company. We are a small company and every person has to be responsible. I’m not mad that you got so drunk you couldn’t make a rational decision. Hell man, I’ve torn a hamstring breakdancing and rubbed Gorbachev’s birthmark. I’m not mad that we had to pay $300 for your cab fare. I’m furious that you are not taking responsibility for your actions. I didn’t make you drink. I didn’t tell you to stay in that room. I sure as shit didn’t tell you not to wake us up to get in the room – quite the contrary. And as for the calling Mom thing…Wrongfit, I can’t promise much, but I can tell you that if you hang out with us long enough, you’ll do dumber things than this. We can’t have you calling mom every weekend. You did all of those things. You made all of those decisions. It is YOUR fault you’re embarrassed right now. 100% YOUR fault. “

“I don’t see it that way.”

“And you never will, which is expressly why you cannot work here. I want all of our artwork turned in by the end of the week. If you need a reference about the quality of your work, I am more than happy to give it.”

“I don’t want it to end like this man. I like you guys. You just didn’t look out for me.”

“Wrongfit, we looked out for you more than you will ever understand. Good luck.”

I hung up the phone, opened up facebook, and updated my status:

“We ran out our new designer in less than 24 hours.”

I lean back and stare blankly as the comments fill up underneath it…

I look up at Tom:

“Fuck, man. That sucked…but, at least we’ll get a good story out of this one…”